


The Brother Keeper

by Saphirott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic John Winchester, Alternate Universe, Character Death, Dean jailed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dean Winchester, Law Student Sam Winchester, M/M, Murderer, Past Child Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, mention childhood sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirott/pseuds/Saphirott
Summary: Taking care of him has always been his job, and he did it to the very end, even though that cost him everything, even him.Wincest AU





	The Brother Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I bring you another one of my stories. This story arose after posting a small drabble in a contest on a Facebook page. When I did, I thought the story was worth much more than just 500 words and decided to work on it a little more. 
> 
> I know that it is not a story for all tastes as it deals with very complicated issues that I have tried to capture in the most respectful way possible even though at certain times I have had no choice but to immerse myself in dark parts. I recommend you to read the warnings and if you think this is not your thing, please just let it go. 
> 
> For those of you who stay and decide to give it a try, I hope you like it. 
> 
> As I have said before, English is not my language, so I apologize in advance for possible mistakes.

**The Brother Keeper**

**By: Saphirott**

 

**Chapter 1: Lost Innocence**

 

The room lit up with the blue glow emanating from the electronic alarm clock resting on his bedside table, a second later, the news station he had programmed began to ring.

_"Today is the day when the verdict of the recently reopened trial will be known and which has raised a large number of blisters in the court of justice of our city. The accused..."_

He turned off the radio, didn't need to listen to all that anymore.

He stood up, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing his face with tiredness. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night, his mind going over every detail, every step of a job he had been doing for years, a job that, in any way, would end today.

He was terrified, terrified as he had not been in a long time. If it doesn't go well, he's sure he will collapse, he can't wait any longer, he's been waiting a long time, too long. Just as he doesn't need to listen to the radio, he doesn't need to listen to his fears. He takes a deep breath in and gets ready to get up, just at the moment his cell phone choose to start ringing.

“Pastor Jim...,” responds with a soft voice, feeling the little smile that forms on his lips, after recognizing the number of the man who took care of him for so long.

“Will you ever stop calling me Pastor?,” asks the man with a certain tone of amusement.

“It's a habit," he replies. It's a kind of family joke, they don't talk much, but they understand each other well. Sam has been in college for four and a half years, is in his internship year, and if all goes well, he will graduate before the summer.

“Are you going to court today?,” asks the man, with a more serious tone now. There is a moment of silence and Sam sighs before answering.

“Yes, today is the last session. The jury has already reached a verdict.”

“Are you nervous?”

“I wouldn't know...,” he answers hesitantly. “I suppose so.”

“You're going to see him... It's been a long time...” There is no answer on the other side of the line and the Pastor can get an idea of why. It is not difficult for him to imagine what the boy feels, he knows him too well. “Don't worry,” he continues to try to comfort the young man, of whom he is so proud, “everything will be all right. We'll talk later, okay?”

“Of course,” he answers, after swallowing that knot that has formed in his throat, _"everything is going to be fine"_ , is a phrase that has long ceased to comfort him. “I have to prepare myself, Singer waits for me at seven to review the last details.” He's proud that his tone has sounded safe enough, even though he has had to clench the hand that doesn't hold the phone in a fist so as not to see the trembling of his fingers.

“Good luck son,” the Pastor says goodbye.

He returns the phone to the bedside table and walks to the shower.

 

*************

 

He has lost count of how many times the tie knot has been tightened, that thing seems willing to drown him before the end of the day, and also how many times he has put the lock of hair behind his ear, during his tour of the university halls, to Singer's office. "Relax. You're just nervous," he says in front of the door before knocking.

He enters the elegant office, once its owner gives him permission to do so. Professor Rober Singer is the law professor at KU, the University of Kansas, located in Lawrence. Sam hesitated for a long time to join this university, he wasn't very pleased to go back to the place where one day he had to run away from, but the scholarship they offered him was really good and he couldn't miss it.

Singer is also his end-of-career project tutor. He has a Deep sense of appreciation for that strong man, with an affable face and a penetrating gaze, who welcomed him under his wing in the second year of his career and who, thanks to him, has come this far. He only regrets that he could not have been entirely sincere with him, although he hopes that one day he will be.

“Sit down, Mr. William," he asked, looking at him with a smile and pointing to one of the leather armchairs in front of his table, which was overcrowded with files.

He pushed into a forgotten corner of his mind the discomfort which, even after so long, caused him to hear his new surname. It was a difficult but necessary decision, and now, some time later, he could still see more advantages to the change, although he will never get used to it. He took a seat and let the professor continue to speak.

“Well, boy. Today is the great day," said the man, charged with an optimism that he himself would like to achieve. His answer was a tense smile, which did not escape the sharp eyes of the older man, who leaned back on his seat and looked at him in a somewhat more serious way.

“Listen to me son. Whatever the result of today, and for the record, that I believe it will be favorable to us; your work in this case has been impeccable, you have dedicated an effort and a tenacity that I have not seen in any of my students in many years.” Sam, turned in his seat, somewhat uncomfortable with flattery. The professor smiled affectionately at him, “you're going to be a great lawyer son, and with the letter of recommendation I intend to write when you graduate, all the law firms in this city will be fighting for you,” he finished saying, with a little laugh and pointing appreciatively at him with his index finger.

At any other time or circumstance, those words would have brightened his day, but right now, they weren't important to him, now there was nothing more important than what would have to happen in that courtroom to which they would be addressing shortly.

“Thank you sir,” that was his brief answer. The man nodded silently and rose to prepare his briefcase before leaving. Sam imitated him in the gesture, impatient to leave.

“Just one more question before we left, Mr. Wilson...,” the man looked at him intensely. “Why did you insist so much that I deal with this case? It had been closed for years, and although we have seen the nonsense in the way it was handled in those days, in principle, it was not a case that drew attention either.

His body tightened imperceptibly, he felt the sweat running down his back, but he carried with him years of educating his body and mind in the exhausting art of hiding his emotions, hiding his life and, in short, hiding who he really is. He shrugged his shoulders and offered a smile that showed a certain disinterest.

“I told you, professor. I was reviewing newspapers in the newspaper library of the city and I found that news, I read a little of the case and I found curious how quickly they closed the investigation and closed the case. That's why I brought it to you, and well, here we are.”

“Yes, you had a good eye, boy," answered Singer without stopping to look at him. He forced himself to hold his gaze, nothing was going to make his house of cards crumble before its time. “Let's go!,” the man finally said, “If we stay here, we'll be late.”

 

**********

 

"It's still early," he says to himself, as he remains with his shoulders leaning against the wall that serves as the headboard of his narrow bed. His legs are crossed at his ankles, just as his arms are crossed at his chest. His eyes are closed, it is not necessary to open them to know that the meager light that penetrates through the small window, still does not give shape to the shadows of the scarce belongings that occupy this austere place.

The body becomes accustomed to routines, and his body has been doing the same thing for ten years, at exactly the same time. Even if it doesn't seem like it, the clock is the only thing that marks some sanity in that place, it establishes the times and that, although some don't believe it, is important. With that knowledge, his body tells him that it's still early, even though he's been awake for hours, even though he hasn't really slept. It's early and he's focused on just breathing. The movement over his head indicates that he is no longer the only one awake.

“I bet you haven't slept a wink tonight, blondie,” says a hoarse, pasty voice, still full of sleep.

He opens his eyes and with veiled eyes he observes the slight bulge in the bed base above his head, which indicates the position of his cellmate. “I have told you a thousand times not to call me blondie. No, if you don't want us to have a problema,” his tone is dangerous, but his lips have curved into a small smile.

“Yeah, yeah... whatever you say..., blondie,” answers the voice and he, murmurs an idiot, wrapped in a little laugh.

There is more movement up and a head appears hanging from the edge of the mattress. The long, curly hair falls down, while blue eyes look at him curiously.

“Well, then what?,” he asks again.

“I've slept," he answers.

“I don't believe you,” snort from above, “Even you can’t be so indifferent. Dude! You could be out this afternoon!,” he exclaims with a certain indignation at the passivity of his companion. “Hell, you still have twelve years and in a little while, you could forget everything.”

He shrugs his shoulders and for a moment, closes his eyes again. Twenty-two years, that had been the sentence. He would be forty-one when he could finally get out of there. He's not going to lie to himself and say he wasn't shocked when the jury read the verdict, he'd spend more years in there than he'd even lived yet, but the impression only lasted for an instant. He did not regret what he had done and would certainly do it again if necessary.

He had made up his mind about that, the beginning of his life there was not easy, but frankly, was any part of his life? He had endured much outside and was not willing to follow the same path, it took him a while, but he got a place and a certain respect inside. He didn't mess with anyone, but no one messed with him either.

He remembers two years ago, the day one of the guards came to warn him that he had a visitor. He had never had visitors. He followed the guard perplexed to the communication room, where one of the seats was pointed out to him. Through the glass, a man in his fifties, stuffed into an expensive suit, looked at him with a certain curiosity. He sat down, watching the thin-haired, gray-bearded man who wore glasses made of paste, even though he looked over them, reading some documents he was holding in his hands. He picked up the telephone next to the glass and he imitated the gesture.

“Mr. Winchester,” he greeted him staring at him. “My name is Robert Singer and today is his lucky day.” He looked at him without understanding. “I am a lawyer and I am going to have his case reopened,” he concluded with a smile of self-sufficiency.

That's how it all started and he still didn't quite understand why. The fact is that the lawyer had seemed to take his work seriously, despite the fact that he had not asked for it and that he had already warned him that he did not have the funds to pay what he was sure would be an expensive fee. Apparently, he must have been the teacher's good deed that year, deep down, he didn't care. Now, two years later, it would all end today and to be honest, he still didn't care.

“I don't care," he replied with indifference and disregarding the reproach reflected in his colleague's gaze. “What am I supposed to do when I go out?”

There was a grunt, and for a moment the head disappeared from his vision, to make way for the burly body that fell heavily from the top bunk. His companion glared at him, clearly angry.

“I don't know, blondie. Maybe... to be free! but what the hell is wrong with you? You're twenty-nine years old, you haven't been like most of the useless people in here, you've made the most of your time, you've formed yourself. You could find a job, resume your life," said the brunette.

“Would you hire a guy who's been in jail for ten years accused of murder?”

“I would," replied his companion with conviction. He couldn't avoid a cynical smile. “Besides,” continued the other, “if all goes well, you will be innocent.”

“And do you think that will really matter to anyone after spending ten years in here?”

He fixed his green eyes, looking defiantly at his companion who finally sighed defeated. The brunette slapped his legs, urging him to move them away. He rose to his feet, sitting at the edge of his bed and the other took his place beside him.

“Someone you will have to have..., some relative, some friend, someone to lend you a hand for a while,” he commented in a softer tone.

He took a deep breath, squeezing his hands around the edge of the slat base.

“I have told you many times. There is no one.”

He stares at the wall in front of him, even in semi-darkness, he can only distinguish the silhouettes of the posters torn from magazines and glued with tape, he remembers the images in them that he can't see now; the two half-naked girls, in suggestive poses and whose skin, both know by heart, to the point of being able to enumerate the exact place of each mole; and then, the luminous landscape of that paradisiacal beach in Cuba.

He strives in this because he does not want to close his eyes and see expressive and changing irises that he has treasured in his memory in many ways, associated with many memories; warm memories, but also painful ones.

“At least you will be out,” insisted his companion, “even if you are alone, it will always be better than this shit. I can give you my cousin Mark's phone, he's a good guy, he'll give you a hand if I ask him, at least until you get a little bit settled.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he finally admitted, tired of that little discusión. “Thanks dude, it will do me good, if I go out,” he said with a hint of irony.

The alarm indicating that it was time to start the day, sounded at that moment and the lights of the whole pavilion were turned on. They both got up and stood face to face, looking at each other intensely. Finally, the brunette approached and surrounded him in a tight embrace.

“Lucky dude..." he muttered in his ear, squeezing it a little more before separating, but still leaving his hands on his shoulders, “You better that I not see you tonight,” he concluded, unable to prevent his voice from sounding emotional.

“Thanks Chris.” He didn't know what else to say. Chris nodded and hugged him again before going out into the pavilion's daily routines.

He had to get ready, Singer had sent him a suit to wear at the trial sessions, to improve his image for the jury, as he had informed him. He felt a bit ridiculous when he wore it, so many years of orange was what he had, anything became strange. He dressed up and waited patiently for them to come and get him.

Sitting in the transport van, he leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes, they had more than an hour's walk ahead of him and frankly, he could use some rest.

 

**********

 

He opened his eyes startled by the sound of something breaking. Confused, he looks around, but what he sees has nothing to do with the van where it is supposed to be.

It's a room, it's night and it's dark, although the moonlight partly illuminates it, slipping through the crystals. There is a small desk under the window, with some notebooks and a jar full of pencils. There are drawings hanging on the wall next to the window and a couple of shelves on the other side. A couple of trophies, a lot of books and some games. There is a collection of classic cars to scale and there are two beds, one of them without touching and the other, throws a mess of blankets.

Now, he knows where he is. He feels his pulse speed up and sweat running down his back. He doesn't have to go near the bed to know what he is going to find under that mess of sheets and blankets. Under there, there are only two children, a small one who shows the typical fears of his age and does not want to sleep alone and another, older one, who, although sometimes also afraid, will always be brave in front of his little brother, giving him the security he needs.

Below he can hear more blows, and drowned curses thrown into nothingness. His body becomes even more tense, he feels the hairs bristle in his arms and neck and he sees, as the bundle of blankets begins to awaken. He no longer knows only where he is, he also knows what day it is; the day that everything began to go wrong.

The blankets fall backwards and leave a thin body in his sight, dressed in Batman pajamas, resting his hand on the mattress, he raises his body and turns his head over his shoulder, looking at the door. His hair is blond, disturbed by hours of sleep, his eyes are green and still half closed.

Another bang is heard below. He discovers himself, looking back at the door, just as the child does. The boy rubs his eyes and then looks at the mattress, just below his chest. He knows what he is looking at, he knows that, next to him, there is a five-year-old boy with long brown hair, who, no matter how hard he tries every day to comb his hair, always looks like a bird's nest. He knows that the child has not woken up, he also knows, that right now, he is curling up, putting his knees against his chest, because that is what he always does when he is not by his side.

He knows what's going to happen, he knows it. He wants to scream, in fact, he's screaming, he's screaming with all his strength at that stupid child who doesn't listen to him.

_"Don't get up! Please... Don't get up! It will pass..., be still. Please, God! Be still! I don't want..., I don't want it to happen..."_

But the child does not listen to him...

The boy gets up carefully and tucks up his brother's little body. Barefoot and rubbing his eyes, he goes out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

He looks at the door closed, trembling from the need to run after that boy, but he can't move. He closes his eyes and bites his lip so hard that he soon feels the metallic aftertaste of blood on his tongue. Silent tears fall down his cheeks and he notices that each time, it is more difficult for him to breathe. When he opens them, he is no longer in the room, but at the foot of the stairs and surrounded by light.

“Dad?”

The voice is strange to him, but obviously full of familiarity, it has been a long time since he heard it like this; the tone reflects a certain confusion. He lifts his head and sees the child at the top of the stairs, his right hand on the handrail and rubing one foot on top of the other. He doesn't remember that he was so small. The boy looks down and he follows his gaze, to find the body ragged right in front of his feet, a body that has left a trail of broken things and defeated furniture.

“Dad?,” he asks again and the body grunts something unintelligible, as he tries to get up again.

He closes his eyes and can only ask him to leave, but by now he knows that all he can do is look.

The man finally holds his hand on the railing and manages to stand up. He still seems very tall. He's tall, he's strong and he's drunk, lately he always is. He wheezes as he staggers on the steps.

“Go away!,” he grunts from the middle of the stairs.

The boy hesitates for a moment, but he may be more worried that his father might fall and so he waits. In fact, he is too drunk, his feet stagger and he falls in the last stretch, fortunately he was ahead.

“Dad!” The boy runs the four steps that separate him from his father's body and clings to his arm trying to help him.

“I said get out!,” the man grunts, shaking him off and throwing him up his ass against the steps.

The boy looks hurt and upset, but it's his father who's there, and he's not going to leave him lying there. He was not always like that, when his mother lived, everything was different, he was very different. His mother had died a year ago, the battle finally lost against a cancer that played with her for too many years. His father hadn't gotten over it and since then, he drank too much. He rose resolutely and approached again ignoring the previous threat.

“Come on Dad... I'll help you," he said, running his little arm through the man's armpit and pulling with all his might.

This time his father did not resist, with one hand on the railing and the other arm around his shoulders, they climbed the stretch they had left. When they reached the top, his body staggered again and he, simply, did not have enough strength to hold him, so they both ended up embedded against the wall.

He saw the man leaning the palm of his hand against it, separating himself from the boy who had been trapped beneath him. He saw how the alcoholic eyes looked at him from top to bottom, and perceived when the confusion of them, became something else, something dirty and dark, that the little one up there still could not recognize.

The man put his free hand to the boy's hair and caressed him tenderly. The boy had flushed cheeks and was still breathing with some difficulty from the effort to help his father up, but even so he smiled openly at the now unusual caress of his father.

“You know...?,” he said with a crooked smile, “You remind me of your mother...”

The boy looked down and blushed even more, but he also smiled wider, because it was good that he looked like his mother, wasn't it? His mother was pretty, loving and funny and, above all, she loved them.

His father held him by the chin and made him look up again.

“You have her hair color," he continued, "and also the color of her eyes... God..., you even have those huge eyelashes.”

The enormous hand caressed the boy's face, his forehead, his cheek.

“You also have her lips, you know?,” and he slid his thumb over them, perhaps squeezing more than necessary, making them stand out red on the pale face of the freckled boy.

The boy stirred uncomfortably and tried to move away, but his hand slid to the back of his neck and held him firmly. The man placed his forehead on the boy's forehead and left it there, as he closed his eyes and breathed with difficulty.

He began to tremble again, louder. He knew that this tremor was the boy's, he felt the warmth of the man's hand on the back of his neck, his index finger sliding along it, marking a tempo that was a countdown to what was to come. Again he could smell the smell of whiskey escaping from between his lips and the concentrated smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes.

“I loved your mother very much. You know that, don't you?”

His teeth are so clenched that he feels they're going to explode at any moment.

The boy nods and his father smiles.

“I also love you very much...” continue with a low and heavy tone.

As soon as he says that., he turns and bends until his lips touch the boy’s. A gentle touch while his hand holds him firmly in place. He separates and looks at him, his eyes open exorbitantly and he can see the beginning of panic. That should make him stop, but contrary to that, the fear of the boy ignites him more, giving free rein to that dark rage that he carries inside him, that one that blames his children for being there instead of his wife and that one that blames his firstborn for being her living portrait, for reliving his memory every day with his presence.

He kisses him again, this time with more violence, as he presses his body against the wall.

“Dad...,” he sobs frightened, the boy trembles in his arms and that only excites him more, he needs more.

“Let's go...,” he orders separating from him and pointing the way to his room, “come with me.”

“No...,” he protests softly, managing to slip out of his hand, but without daring to flee, staying stuck to the wall, as if it could protect him from something.

“Don't want me to get angry. I told you to come,” demands in a tone that the boy knows how to recognize as dangerous.

The green of his eyes is flooded with tears and his lower lip is shivering. His gaze slips nervously from the intimidating figure of his father to the door of his own room and he tries...

“I should go back to my room...,” he says. His father looks at him with eyes full of suspicion. “Sammy might wake up...,” no answer from the oldest, “he is afraid if he wakes up alone, he is very small...,” he finishes saying, hopeful with his father's silence. A few seconds pass in which the man does not stop looking at him, as if he were considering something important.

“Let's go,” he repeats in a dry voice. It didn't work.

“No,” he sobs a little louder now.

His father advances towards him with his hand raised and tries to cover himself as best he can. He doesn't hit him as he expects, but he does hold his arm and shake him hard.

“Listen to me..., do as I say and you can go back to your room and if you want to avoid trouble, Sam better not wake up. Do you understand?”

He felt the fear overflowing with every pore of his skin, the desperate need to flee. But also, both now and then, he clearly distinguished the threat from his father, a threat that did not only include him. He saw the boy nod between hypidos and allow himself to be dragged submissive to his parents' room.

“Lie down,” ordered his father pointing to the bed. The boy looked at it with distrust. “We're not going to do anything wrong,” said the adult as he got rid of his jacket, “come on, lie down.”

The boy did it and his father lay beside him in front of him. His green eyes were still wet, frightened and suspicious. The little body shrank when he felt the caress of his father on his face.

“Shhh..., nothing bad is going to happen. You are so identical..., so identical to her...”

Looking down from the foot of the bed, he felt the disgust growing in his bowels. He was disgusted by that false sweetness that surrounded those words, vain justifications and ruthless lies.

“I love you son...,” his lips covered the lips of the youngest, who was petrified, moved over them more and more eagerly, “I love you so much...”

His father squeezed his small body against his, feeling his desire increase, as it pressed against the harsh fabric of his jeans. He rubbed against him without ceasing to kiss his lips, face and neck.

“You must love me too. Good children love their parents. Do you love me?”

The little one looks at him doubtfully, but the father's eyes shine with an anxiety and a real hope, which confuses him and which he does not understand. He nods and his father smiles satisfied.

“That makes me very happy son... do you know how I know that I am happy?”

The boy denies. His father manoeuvres his clothes and then takes his hand and carries it to his crotch, the boy's face contracts when he feels the skin hard and warm.

“Shhh...,” his father repeats again, “This happens because I love you... and you love me, that's why it's okay for you to touch me.”

The boy doesn't say anything, he doesn't move and hardly breathes, and he's starting to get impatient, because he's really hard and needs to finish.

“Do it this way,” he says taking his hand with his and guiding him up and down on his limb. The boy isn't participating, he's just staying still, letting himself be done, but he doesn't care anymore, he'll have time to teach him, now he just needs that, to feel that it's his hand that caresses him, even if it's under his guidance and to be able to get lost in those green eyes that look so much like hers.

His hips clash again and again, more and more erratic as the rhythm of his breathing accelerates. Take the boy's lips and kiss him hard, moaning a _“I love you”_ over his mouth and spilling over both their hands and the black fabric of the flannel pajamas. He remains still, gradually recovering his breath and with it, some of the sanity he had lost.

It feels like the child's hand remaind still on its now flaccid limb. He removes it and puts it back under the fabric of the boxer, he turns, looking upwards with his gaze lost on the ceiling.

“Can… can I go?,” stammers the little voice beside him. Take a deep breath and nod.

“Wash your hands," he says, "and don't tell anyone about this. Is that clear?”

The boy nods and slides carefully out of bed, follows him on his trembling path to the bathroom, still feeling in his hand the sticky sign of the infamous act. Already in his room, he observes him when he returns to the warmth of his bed and envies him, only because he knows the peace that comes to him when the little sleeping body stretches and embraces him, a peace that manages to relieve part of the breach that was opened that day in his soul.

A hand shook his shoulder.

“Wake up, we have arrived.”


End file.
